


With The Engine Inside

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Play, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Series, RIP Victor it's been real, Sex Toys, Stuff Yuuri Katsuki Full of Cock 2k17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9182155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Victor brought this on himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've come into the new year waving the FILL THAT SWEET BOY WITH COCK banner and I don't foresee my arm getting tired anytime soon, so there will probably be more after this.
> 
> Title taken from "So Good" by The Aloof (because the working title was "How Do You Say 'Talk Shit, Get Hit' in Russian?")

When the alarm startles Yuuri into headbutting him nearly into a coma, Victor says through a pained laugh, “With that kind of coordination, we’ll have to break one of Phichit’s legs to make sure you get on the podium.”  


Yuuri flashes him a sheepish grin, and that’s all the green light Victor needs to spend the entire morning before the Free Skate teasing Yuuri about snatching the gold right from under him.

He takes things too far sometimes. He’s well aware of this, but it’s something he can’t seem to head off at the pass—even when he knows he should. All of his previous relationships were fraught with arguments that erupted into full-blown screaming matches because he always had to push a _little_ bit more, just to see what would happen. It’s one of the reasons he’s been banned from going anywhere near the tiger enclosure at the Moscow Zoo. 

So, he pushes and pushes, like he always does, and until he sees the exact moment when his ribbing slips from ‘good natured’ to 'blindingly obnoxious’. In the middle of a zinger about Yuuri’s focus—or lack thereof—the amused smile on Yuuri’s face shifts and hardens, and over the course of the rest of the morning it reaches a cooling point to which no amount of cajoling can chisel it down into its customary sweetness. He’d be worried that this has tugged Yuuri’s ever-lessening anxiety back to the forefront if not for the flash of a sinuous creature that stirs in his gaze, breaching the surface to grant Victor a glimpse before settling again.

Eventually, though, the smiles—hardened or otherwise—stop entirely.  

Halfway through an uncomfortably quiet continental breakfast, Yuuri puts his half-eaten parfait down and says with an odd hush, “There’s something I need to do. You go on ahead; I’ll see you at Hartwall.”

“Yuuri—” 

But all he gets is a smile that looks as though it’s being held up by old chewing gum and cheap tape before Yuuri abandons him to finish breakfast alone. 

An ache in his chest makes itself known right beneath his breastbone, and for a terrifying second he thinks he might be having a heart attack. 

This is how it always starts: with an edge. All he needs to do is push and push and _push_ Yuuri right over it.

No. No, that isn’t what this is. Yuuri is stronger than he knows, than even Victor can comprehend, and a little bit of friendly trash-talk isn’t anywhere _near_ enough to put a crack in the foundation they’ve built together. Whatever it is that Yuuri needs to do, it’s important to Yuuri, and so Victor leaves it be. He’ll apologize for being a tit at Hartwell Arena, right before Yuuri’s due to perform, and that’ll take care of any lingering doubts that might cast a shadow over Yuuri’s program. He always skates better when the catharsis is fresh.

At Hartwell, Victor’s in the middle of stretching and half-watching Leo de la Iglesia finish an admittedly decent program when his text alert pings. He nearly breaks his leg trying to get to his phone. It’s been hours since he last saw Yuuri and the pointed silence that’s met his increasingly frantic texts and voicemails has been utter torture. Yuuri hasn’t even been by for their usual ritual: pressing their foreheads together and murmuring _Don’t take your eyes off me_ in the other’s native tongue. They do it before every performance. The very thought of skipping it makes Victor’s gorge rise. 

But apparently he’s been worrying for nothing, because the message is from Yuuri.

_Не отводите взгляд от меня._

Almost immediately, the tight and thorny thread just beneath his heart softens, and Victor breathes easily for the first time in hours. He’s about to type a reply when he notices the little paperclip icon hovering below the text bubble. _Attached file: Focus.mp4_

“Fifteen minutes, Victor,” Yakov barks at him from where he’s leaning against the boards, watching Emil Nekola take to the ice with far more attention than he really deserves. Emil’s good, but not that good. 

“I’ll be there,” Victor promises. “I just need… I need to check something.”

Yakov doesn’t even deign to acknowledge that. How rude. 

Clutching the phone, Victor leaves his section and bypasses a hungry-looking reporter wandering the corridor, ducking into a quiet alcove that’s far enough away from the roar of the crowd for him to devote all his attention to it. 

Yuuri sends maybe two videos a year. That he’s sent one today, after this morning, is either really good or really bad, and Victor has no idea which way the axe is going to fall. It’s not a great feeling. The last time he was this unsure about something, he was buying a ring for a man who acted as though he didn’t remember anything that happened between them the year before. 

The glint of the gold band wrapped around his finger is reassuring enough that he thumbs open the file without another moment’s hesitation. 

The video begins to play.  

He has no idea what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.

In brilliant and crystal clear HD, amid the mussed sheets of their hotel room bed, is Yuuri: bathed in the light of the morning Helsinki sun and gasping little wounded whuffs of air as he painstakingly lowers himself onto a large red dildo.

 _“Victor… !”_ Yuuri whines, throwing his head back with ecstatic abandon.

Victor drops his phone.

Obviously the fall does nothing to damage it, because the tinny sounds of Yuuri taking his pleasure are deafeningly loud in this little corner, and as Victor rescues the phone from the floor and clutches it to his chest, he casts about wildly to make sure no one else is around to hear this. By some freak luck, he’s completely alone.

Mouth dry, he chances a peek at the screen. Yuuri’s back is arched so that his nipples stand out, hard and wanting, puffy with recent abuse, the rest of him impossibly poised as he holds strong on his knees. Muscle ripples beneath his slick skin like water over stone, running down to where his thighs are taut, trembling as though they’ve been like this for hours, and his pretty cock is flushed and drooling against his belly with every slow push of the toy inside him. 

_“Oh god, Victor. It’s s-so good.”_ Yuuri’s head lolls back lazily and he gazes straight into the camera, eyes glazed and half-lidded. His tongue darts out to taste the bitten-red of his bottom lip. _“So good.”_

Victor falls back against the wall when all the blood in his body drops into his dick. Oh god, he’s using the stupidly veiny dildo that Chris gave Yuuri yesterday as a joke about helping him “with his stretching routine.” Victor had never seen Yuuri so mortified, and when he couldn’t find the thing after they got back to the hotel room he’d just assumed Yuuri got rid of it.  

On screen, Yuri’s hand slips a little and forces the toy deeper; his lips part around a high, shocked moan. 

There’s never been a moment when Victor doesn’t think that Yuuri is the most beautiful thing on the planet, but to see him like this—on display for him, a creature made of almost palpable desire—is fantasy made flesh. Victor could watch the rhythmic motion of his arm for hours, find entire symphonies in the shuddering gasps that tear from his heaving chest with every thrust. The muscles straining in his thighs beg for the press of teeth. 

_“V-Victor, I—”_ But whatever Yuuri is about to say gets lost in the slick, sucking sound of the dildo as he draws it out of his body completely, leaving the head kissing his entrance. Fuck, fuck, Victor can just picture it, swollen and twitching and shiny with lube, and he has to press his hand hard against his cock where it strains against the spandex of his costume so he doesn't come right then and there. 

Yuuri tilts his head just so, holding Victor’s gaze, and shoves the toy back inside with a punched-out, wet _“ungh.”_

This is impossible. Unsustainable. Every ounce of energy that he’d been storing for his program gets redistributed to his fist, which clenches so hard that his nails bite into his palm, because not touching Yuuri like this is a special kind of punishment. He wants to run his tongue up the fat vein on the underside of Yuuri’s cock, wants to feel the hot, stretched rim of Yuuri’s hole spasming as it tries to accommodate the invasion. Slide his fingers into Yuuri’s mouth until he’s drooling and gagging gratefully around them. Force those thighs even wider and shove his own cock in right alongside the toy to see how much Yuuri can take. Stuff him at both ends. Push and push and _push_ him to the edge. 

That he can’t do any of it is hell. This is Hell. 

A shiver drags sharp claws from his toes to the base of his skull and Victor’s head thunks against the wall.

 _“I-I’m close,”_ Yuri slurs, grinding down onto the cock inside him so hard that Victor swears he sees the rounded head of it press up through the skin of his belly.

Yuuri’s cock pulls away from his body slowly, the plush head an angry red, shiny with precome that glistens like a warning. There’s a place just beneath the flare of it that drives Yuuri out of his mind when Victor fits his lips against it and sucks soft and slow, and Victor’s mouth fills at the thought of it. 

_“Oh! Oh god, oh, oh—”_ Surprise colors Yuuri’s face pink, forces his eyes wide and unseeing. His entire body pulls tight like a bowstring as his cock spits ropes of come onto the sheets, onto his thighs, without a single touch. 

Victor shoves his hand in between his teeth to stop the shocked moan that explodes in the back of his mouth, knees threatening to buckle even with the support of the wall behind him. If he so much as touches his cock, he’ll be _done_.

Heaving for air and jerking with the aftershocks, Yuuri’s eyes slide shut, lost. In the gilded cast of sunlight, he looks like a fallen idol, sullied by the pleasures of the body and the filth of humanity. It’s an altar at which Victor would gladly worship for the rest of his days. 

After a moment’s rest, Yuuri stirs and, slowly, slides the toy out of him, letting it drop to the sheets. He exhales, steels his shoulders, and climbs off the bed, padding over to where his phone is recording until he fills the screen—flushed, naked, and absolutely beautiful. Victor’s entire body, humming with vicious need, tightens in anticipation.

Yuuri looks into the camera for a moment, then the creature that Victor glimpsed this morning surfaces with an innocent smile and chirps, _“What was that you were saying about focus and coordination, Victor?”_

Victor’s jaw drops.

 _“See you on the podium.”_ The sweet curve to his lips melts into something positively wicked. _“Maybe.”_

And the video cuts out. With the sound suddenly gone, the silence that descends is somehow louder than the echo of the announcer reporting Emil’s scores. 

Victor glances down to where his erection looks like it’s about to tear straight through the fabric of his costume when his phone buzzes suddenly in his palm. He almost drops it again.

_“WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”_

He swallows around the dry lump in his throat and rasps, “S-Sorry, Yakov. I lost track of time. I’m coming.”

—Yuuri’s flushed, straining cock, spurting without a single touch—

“Coming over!” He amends quickly through gritted teeth, closing his eyes against the stab of heat in his groin. “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up on whatever Yakov is about to say, then scurries awkwardly to the nearest restroom.

In the end, Victor’s four minutes late to his performance and his scattered focus just barely nets him silver, but it’s more than worth sitting through Yakov’s apoplectic, post-skate diatribe for the knowing smile that Yuuri flashes down at him from where he stands, proud and pleased, at the top of the podium.

**Author's Note:**

> Come [tumble](http://rcmclachlan.tumblr.com) with me.
> 
>  _[Inspiration for Yuuri coming untouched](http://cockgeeks.tumblr.com/post/134407860231/phunguy-phunguy-joey-brodie-in-my-cum)._ (NSFW)


End file.
